


tenderness is in the hands

by alismithpdf



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, just some soulmates being clumsily in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-17 23:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18974611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alismithpdf/pseuds/alismithpdf
Summary: Eliott's favourite cinema has cheap popcorn, a lot of foreign films, and a blue eyed boy behind the counter.





	tenderness is in the hands

The Lallemant Theatre looks half dilapidated from the street. Old fashioned, with faded vintage posters in dull, scratched up frames outside, and half the light bulbs blown out, throwing odd shadows on the movie titles.  

Eliott is there at least once a week. 

The scuffed up wooden floors feel like home. Golden walls littered with more decades old posters, velvet love seats in deep red and purple scattered at odd intervals along the sides of the room, the scents of melted butter and bleach inescapable and constant. 

“There you are. I was worried you were dead in a ditch,” says the only other person in the building. Eliott, before he’s had a chance to lift his head to find him, grins on instinct. Lucas’ voice, lilting and teasing, washes away the bad mood this week has left him with. 

“Serious bodily harm  _ is _ the only thing that would keep me from you,” he allows. Lucas just scrowls, bristles, and puts aside the magazine in his hands. Eliott keeps smiling. It’s hard to predict exactly how Lucas will react when he says things like that, but whatever response he gets is a treasure.

“You’re almost late, you know.”

Eliott finally reaches the counter, places his hands on it and leans over a bit. Lucas’ hair is defying gravity, his eyes bright under the lighting, and a red plaid scarf that would contrast delightfully with his skin is curled next to the keyboard. Eliott wriggles his eyebrows. “You’d wait for me though, right?” Lucas rolls his eyes, so Eliott wages forward. “What’s on tonight?”

“Some Australian horror.” Lucas runs a hand through his hair, some of his fingernails flashing with chipped colour. “I’m not sure if you’ll like it, to be honest.”

Eliott hums vaguely and pulls out his wallet, finds a creased note between a collection of abandoned loyalty cards and faded concert tickets. The ticket stub he gets in exchange has a thick yellow line down the side, and the hand giving it to him has badly painted nails, each one a different shade of green.

“You’re really bad at that,” he says, nodding to Lucas’ hand. Lucas squints his eyes, raises his chin a little.

“I had to use my left hand.”

“Uh huh. Let’s see your other hand, then.” The other hand in question immediately disappears from view. From the way he shifts, there’s a good chance Lucas is sitting on it. 

Eliott grins in triumph. “There’s no shame in being truly terrible at things, Lucas.”

“I suppose you would know a thing or two about it.”

Valiantly, Eliott lets that slide, stuffs the ticket in his pocket. The colour changes every month or so, and soon he’ll have enough of them saved to do - something. A collage, a sculpture, something worthy of this building, of the memories inside its walls. “Why don’t you think I’ll like the movie?”

“I've only seen pieces, but it doesn't seem to have any… sincerity in it. Which I know you don't have a lot of tolerance for.”

“You remember that?” Not a lot of people actually listen to him when he talks about film, the thread sometimes unspooling too quickly, tangling and looping, and making it hard for anyone to follow easily.

Lucas expression goes warm, kind, and something boarding on sympathetic. “I remember everything you say, Eliott.” There's an implied  _ obviously _ in the air and, well, no one would blame him for the way his heart beat rushes, especially when Lucas says his name like  _ that _ , affectionate, weighty, like it’s valuable, like it matters. 

Eliott looks to the side, coughs, brings the lighter out of his pocket just to have something to fiddle with. 

“Has anyone else got a ticket for it?”

The way Lucas shakes his head makes his hair dance. “Just you. How much popcorn do you want?”

Eliott shoots the popcorn machine a look, its yellow glow a physical presence in the room. He can almost feel the sheer quantity of butter clogging up his veins from here. Simultaneously they take the couple steps to the side where the confectionery part of the counter technically starts.

“Depends, how hungry are you?” he asks, smirks, when Lucas has the audacity to look surprised Eliott is asking. 

“Who says I'm joining you? I have a job to do, you know.”

It's a good argument, but one that would probably work better if they were in a theatre that had more than roughly fifteen customers a week, most of them not at 9pm on a Wednesday. 

“You would rather sit out here doing magazine quizzes and waiting for customers that don't exist than sit next to me for a few hours and prove just how bad you are with accents?”

“You're so annoying, and I have nothing to prove to you.“

Eliott softens. “I know you don't. So how hungry are you?”

Without argument, Lucas shoots the popcorn a longing look. “So fucking hungry. Don't worry,” he adds, flaps his hand like he can reverse Eliott's move to take his wallet out again. “It's included in your ticket price.”

A blatant lie, but Eliott doesn’t call him on it, just shrugs. Lucas nods and starts piling popcorn into the biggest box they have, the cardboard checkered orange and white. Lucas’ maman, the owner, seems to love colour, the theatre drenched in vibrancy, texture, calling out to a city that’s too blind to see it.

When Lucas passes the box over, their fingers overlap, and Eliott sets the food down in favour of getting a closer look at his hands. It's a good thing Lucas has started painting his nails, he doesn't have to reach for an excuse. It’s a lot smoother than Lucas’s  _ I think there’s a bug, oh no wait my mistake, I’ve always liked tattoos, why do you have mardi written on your knee _ ? It’d been a warm day, on the cusp of summer, the arms of their singlets plunging low to their waists, both of their legs’ exposed,  and it was a good thing Lucas moved first because Eliott had been trying to find reasons for why Lucas  _ really should  _ stop sitting properly and drape his leg’s across Eliott’s. He’s as shameless as Lucas, really, just hides it better.

And this, this is slightly subtler. He leans down like he's properly inspecting Lucas' hands, face serious, touch gentle, and Lucas doesn't resist, bends easily to make room for Eliott’s whims. 

The colour isn’t really that badly done, really, but still. 

“You can practice on me, if you want,” Eliott offers. Nicely, in his opinion, but Lucas’ eyebrows furrow.

“I’m really bad at it.”

“...Which is why I offered.”

He presses his lips together. “I don’t mind being bad when it’s my own body, but you have nice hands,” Eliott chokes on nothing, Lucas mouth quirks. “I don’t want to ruin them.” 

“You couldn't ruin anything.”

“Well, some things,” Eliott doesn't think he imagined the seconds Lucas takes to flick his eyes down Eliott's body, “but if you insist, I'll gladly use you to experiment on.”

Eliott doesn't know when they started having, how they  _ keep having, _ multiple conversations at once, but it's a bit too much. His hand automatically moves to tap at his lips, a nervous tic, but, right, they're still holding - no, not holding, just touching - hands. He can feel the edge of a callous on one of Lucas’ fingers. Drums? Guitar? Wire sculpture? Carpentry? Before he can ask further, Lucas slips his hand away and he jumps the counter. 

“Come on, I don't want to keep you out late.”

Lucas sets off towards the splintered hall that most of the theatres spring off, and Eliott follows him automatically, absently reclaiming the popcorn when Lucas picks up a jacket, presumably his own. “You don't?” 

“Well, not for this,” the tips of his ears go slightly red, but nothing else. One day Eliott will make him blush for real, and it will be a beautiful day. “Isn't a regular sleep schedule good for you? For stability, I mean.”

“I don’t remember telling you that.”

“That’s because you didn’t. I did some research, after you told me. The wikipedia article for bipolar disorder is very well written.”

“No WebMD?”

Lucas shakes his head. “Yahoo Answers was very educational, though.”

“Well, primary sources  _ are  _ important.”

Lucas takes a right turn, a direction that can only take them to two cinemas: the Burgandy and the Woolf. The former reasonably large, wide seats, a bronze curtain unveiling the screen, and the width between aisles just that little bit too small for his liking. The latter is smaller, screen half the size, the walls dark blue, ceiling tall, and a collection of deep couches to seat the audience. It is, undeniably, Eliott’s favourite, and the way Lucas is looking, pleased, content, a slight bounce to his walk that usually isn’t there - Eliott has to resist the urge wrap his arms around him and, possibly, never let go. The ecosystem here would support them; they’d never have to leave.

The next time he glances over at Lucas his heart stutters when he finds those blue eyes already trained on him, eager, adoring. The barriers between them erode the deeper they roam into the guts of the building. The architecture is tricky, clever, expands beyond the barriers granted to it by the city, and something similar happens to them. Eliott feels paper thin, transparent, emotions bleeding into the space between them. Lucas reaches across, tugs on his arm, and leads them, unsurprisingly, into the Woolf. And it’s okay that he’s bleeding, that this far deep the physics of the room demands honesty, because it’s Lucas, a fixed point in the universe, who, underneath the snark and pouting and dramatics, has always ever only gathered up all the kindness and joy and tenderness he could find in his hands and offered it to Eliott freely.

Lucas softly nudges Eliott towards a couch in the centre but doesn’t follow him down when Eliott sits, sinks, into the middle of it, wanders away to do whatever is required to start the movie. The lights dim, first, then the screen clicks to life with a kind thank you for choosing Lallemant Theatre for your movie going experience. The room is a universe unto itself, and the last traces of the day slide off of him, every bad thought getting lost in the dark.

Lucas, when he returns, drops down on Eliott’s side, close, confident, and reaches across his body for a handful of popcorn. Eliott had placed it beside him, next to the armrest, without thinking, but clearly it had been a great idea. 

Lucas’ neck arches back when he relaxes, stares at the ceiling, chest moving slowly, deeply, his collarbone refracting light. It’s - Eliott shouldn’t stare like this, should try and tame his greedy eyes, because Lucas isn’t his to stare at so blatantly. Not really. Whatever nebulous, shifting, sometimes delicate thing they’ve morphed into over these months, there are some lines still intact, things left unsaid under a gossamer veil of… deniability, caution, something. 

Like he’s been summoned by the current of Eliott’s thoughts, Lucas flops his neck, looks at him. “Can I take you up on your offer?” 

“Of course,” Eliott answers automatically, without bothering to figure out exactly what he's referring to. Yes, of course, literally whatever Lucas wants. His responding grin is visible even in the low light, and in the seconds Eliott takes to bask in and appreciate his smile, Lucas straightens up, whips out a small bottle of nail polish from somewhere, its lid silver and the polish colour unknown. 

Right. Eliott has his doubts about how well this will go given the changing light levels, courtesy of the pre movie ads, and lack of a solid surface, but Lucas twists to sit sideways, takes Eliott's hand and places it on one of his thighs, and, really, if Lucas has deemed this environment adequate, who is Eliott to tell him otherwise. 

The denim of his jeans is warm, the muscle underneath firm, and Lucas pats his hand, just once, before opening the polish and securing the bottle in the crease of his other leg. 

“What colour is it?”

“Dark orange, kinda.”

“I don't know if it'll go with my complexion. “

Lucas snorts. “You can take the hit.” 

The first brush is on his thumb, and leaves a sizable streak on the skin beside his nail. An edge of a smile is visible from Eliott’s eye line. The next nail goes about the same way, and Eliott makes the decision to study the room, the ads, the tumble of Lucas’ hair, rather than watch in real time as burnt orange varnish settles into the grooves of his skin.

By the time he finishes painting that hand, the movie has started, and Eliott really should pay attention, but his gaze is stuck. There are stars in Lucas’ eyes, his skin stained rose from light thrown from the screen, veins in his arms; Eliott vibrates with the need to touch, to feel, to trace the shape of his hands, his arms, the sweet curve of his neck. 

His hand, the one on Lucas’ thigh, clasps, squeezes, subconsciously, and Lucas finally, finally, meets his gaze properly. His mouth feels sticky, stuffed with fairy floss, and he wants to apologise but the words won’t come out. There are stars in his eyes, an entire ocean, every sublime mystery the universe has to offer. 

Characters are talking, their accents grating, and the light burns white.

Lucas’ hand finds his and squeezes.

“Can our next date be somewhere else?”

Eliott’s mind goes blank, tries to force the fairy floss away. “Our next date?”

“Or our first one, either way,” Lucas says, and his smile is cheeky, eyes teasing. Eliott takes a second to readjust to this new reality, this beautiful, divine reality, and lets himself smile too, gentle, and probably slightly awed.

“We've been doing this for how long, and this is how you officially ask me out?”

Lucas’ cheeks bunch with how big he’s smiling. “You had something better in mind, Romeo?”

“Maybe I did. Maybe I would've convinced your maman to play my favourite romance, and then recreated one of the scenes with you, which would make you swoon and win your heart.”

Lucas’ mouth gapes for a second, incredulous. “That sounded very well planned for something that I only just asked you.”

“That was one of my top five plans.”

“Five?”

“I'll tell you about them later.” Lucas looks curious, like he wants to ask more, want to keep interrogating every romantic scenario Eliott has ever thought of, eyes flicking across Eliott’s features, and when he bites his lip Eliott’s gaze drops to them, plush, pink, begging to be captured. Normally Eliott would indulge him anything, but there are some better things they could do. “Can I please kiss you now?”

Lucas starts nodding before he’s finished speaking, smiles for a second, and he doesn’t have to lean far because Eliott has already moved forward, curled into his space. 

“Please,” Lucas whispers, leans his neck up, and Eliott falls into his gravity. The first tentative brush of their lips feels like the first ever breath of air, vital, stabilising,  _ impossible to live without.  _ His hands go up to cup Lucas’ cheeks, keep him there, keep him close. His veins fizz and heart flutters, bounces, around his chest, but this, the sweet drag of Lucas’ lips, his soft sigh when Eliott tilts his head, kisses his deeper, slower, this is the most certain, the most  _ right _ , he’s ever felt about anything. The universe was designed to place him here, with this boy, so close he’s almost in his lap. Placed him so he can hear the low noise Lucas makes, the vibrations travelling straight down to his core, when he breaks their kiss. 

Lucas, dazed, confused, and smiling, looks back at him. “Why’d you stop?” his voice is a little gravelly. 

Eliott strokes the cut of his cheekbones with his thumb. “I just - I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he murmurs. 

“Really?” Lucas asks, with a level of shock that shouldn’t be there, that Eliott will have to rectify every day they’re together. For now, though, he shrugs, raises his eyebrows teasingly. 

Lucas makes a dramatic sound, some kind of sigh/groan hybrid, and looks heavensward. “I wasn’t sure if you were like that with everyone, or just me.” 

When he looks back down Eliott guides their foreheads together, shakes his head gently so they don’t get displaced. “Only you. Ever since I saw you, it’s only been you.”

**Author's Note:**

> title from because one is always forgotten by carolyn forche
> 
> thanks for reading!  
>   
> i'm on tumblr [ here ](https://without-tenderness.tumblr.com)


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